


found peace in your arms

by gauras



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Touch-Starved, less vague this time and more explicit, there's just a lot a lot of touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: “You with me?” Fjord asks, tucking that stubborn lock of hair that always falls in Caleb’s eyes behind an ear. His hand falls to rest on the bedspread between them, palm up, an unspoken invitation. Caleb takes it, lacing their fingers together. Fjord squeezes back lightly.Caleb hums, “Just lost in thought.”





	found peace in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> [slam dunks this onto ao3 like a fuckin basketball] here we go again y'all
> 
> this is super duper self-indulgent and a far cry from what i normally write. i hope u enjoy <3
> 
> title from [gentle storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONQ25RW585w) by elbow (the video is. strangely unsettling for such a sweet song and for that i apologize)

What they have isn’t new. It’s merely been built up to, stones and mortar to craft a stable foundation. Tentative, circumstantial trust became mutual admiration became friendship became mutual adoration became something else. So the first time Caleb and Fjord fell into bed together, it felt like just another brick in the foundation of their relationship. Then it happened again, and again, and again, and the rest of the Mighty Nein had been unsurprised when they had broken the news, stumbling over their words and flushing.

Now it’s expected that they’ll share a room during their travels, planned for, even. It’s a little embarrassing when Jester calls out a loud, suggestive “Good night!” whenever they retire to their room, and Beauregard now has far too much to hold over his head from all the times Caleb bemoaned his situation to her  _ before, _ but it’s nice to have a routine, a warm body to curl around, a place to belong.

Caleb shakes his head and pulls himself from his navel-gazing, finishes patting his face dry and takes a moment to consider the stubble lining his cheeks. It’s coarse, bristly, but Fjord seems to like it, so Caleb deigns that it can remain another day.

Fjord is sitting upright in bed when Caleb returns, back pressed against the wall and hair in complete disarray, looking as though he’s weathered a windstorm. His cheeks are still flushed, lips still reddened as he busies himself with smoothing down his shirt. Love bites peek out from its open collar, a hazy line of bruises that smudge their way across his clavicle before they disappear into the deep vee of his shirt’s neckline. A hot, pleased flush spreads through Caleb at the sight of them, and the simple knowledge of them staining Fjord’s skin, as sweet and dark as burst berries, is nearly as intoxicating as it had been to press them there.

The bites that adorn the junction of his own neck and shoulder give a tender little throb when Caleb presses the tip of a finger to them, skin unbroken but rubbed a little raw, the imprint of tusks better than any promise ring. Caleb allows himself a small smile; he likes the symmetry.

Caleb crosses the room, combing his fingers through his wet hair and wincing when he tugs on several snarls. Idly, he wonders if he can convince Fjord to brush his hair before bed. There’s something soothing about it, sitting cross-legged on the floor between Fjord’s knees, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back, trusting in Fjord as he guides him with gentle fingers. The scrape of his nails against his scalp, the rasp of the brush, the warm press of the pads of Fjord’s fingers against his neck, it’s all a vulnerability, a tenderness Caleb hasn’t let himself have in years, not since the Academy. 

Most days, Caleb still feels undeserving of such gentleness, a sort of cognitive dissonance between past and present, but Fjord seems to enjoy it nearly as much as he. They’ve been working on it, trying to learn together how to be…  _ this, _ but their hushed conversations in the dead of night always seem to thin and pale, becoming nearly translucent, ephemeral, in the light of day. So, Caleb tries to convince himself that  _ this _ is okay if it’s for Fjord’s benefit, tries to rationalize his wants with his past, tries to bargain current contentment with the promise of recompense in the future.

It works. Mostly.

“Caleb.”

Caleb blinks and inhales sharply. Somehow, he’s half in bed, one knee drawn up under the covers, the other bare to the chill in the room. His hair drips soggily onto the towel draped around his neck. Fjord has turned to him, the furrow in his brow barely visible behind the curly curtain of his bangs, sticking up in every direction. When it’s not slicked back in that greasy, asshole-adjacent style, his hair brushes the tips of his ears. He’s due for a haircut.

“You with me?” Fjord asks, tucking that stubborn lock of hair that always falls in Caleb’s eyes behind an ear. His hand falls to rest on the bedspread between them, palm up, an unspoken invitation. Caleb takes it, lacing their fingers together. Fjord squeezes back lightly.

Caleb hums, “Just lost in thought.”

Fjord tugs on his hand and Caleb goes willingly. They slot together quite nicely, with Caleb’s shoulder tucked up against Fjord’s side and Fjord’s cheek pressed against the crown of Caleb’s head. “What about?”

“Ah, nothing of import.” Caleb shrugs and Fjord’s shoulder rolls with it. Above him, Fjord snorts, an indelicate rush of warm air that ruffles Caleb’s hair. He imagines that section to be a fraction drier than the rest, then dismisses the silly thought.

“If you say so,” Fjord says and then buries his nose in Caleb’s hair, giving little whuffing chuffs as he breathes him in, unabashed. Caleb settles in, lets his head loll against Fjord’s shoulder, and drifts.

Sleep doesn’t come, but that’s fine with Caleb. It’s cozy, floating in this half-aware dreamland. The world seems softer with every blink, a little fuzzy, objects distant but sensations sharp as cut crystal. Fjord goes about his post-coital ritual and something about it feels charmingly feline to Caleb. He nudges back when Fjord noses along his temple and Fjord makes a pleased little sound.

“Hey,” Fjord says, approximately five minutes later. It’s paired with a slight jostle that earns him an absent hum. “I was going to ask, earlier, but I got a little, um, distracted.”

“Really?” Caleb asks, turning slightly in Fjord’s grip to face him. He slides a bare leg into Fjord’s lap and laughs quietly at the way he flushes when he hooks his foot under Fjord’s calf. “I certainly couldn’t tell.”

“Asshole,” Fjord mutters, but doesn’t draw away. Using his foot for leverage, Caleb pulls himself closer to Fjord and slips a hand underneath the hem of his shirt, skating his nails across Fjord’s belly just to see him shiver before settling on the curve of his waist.

“What were you going to ask?” Caleb prompts when Fjord remains stubbornly silent. He heaves a heavy sigh and his thumb draws faint circles on the round of Caleb’s shoulder.

“I wanted to--I was hoping I could borrow Frumpkin.” He looks away, still so shy after all this time, after everything, even with Caleb naked and starfished against his side. Caleb doesn’t bother with responding, merely snaps Frumpkin into existence at the foot of the bed and tells him to make biscuits on Fjord’s thigh, reluctantly scooting over to make room for his cat.

Fjord breathes out, a shaky “Thanks, Caleb,” barely audible on the exhale as Frumpkin struts up, tail a striped banner that waves merrily in the air. He steps slowly, carefully across Fjord’s lap, then digs his claws into the meat of Fjord’s leg with glee. Fjord stiffens, winces. Caleb does nothing. It’s one of the joys of having a cat, and he will never deny Fjord the full experience, especially now that he’s expressed a desire to bond with Frumpkin.

Eventually, once he realizes the claws do nothing more than prick him, Fjord relaxes into the rhythmic motion of Frumpkin’s kneading and reaches out a hesitant hand to bury in Frumpkin’s scruff. Frumpkin arches into it, momentarily distracted from his task. A purr rumbles out, little more than a hoarse rasp, as Fjord wiggles the scruff back and forth. He drags his fingers up to Frumpkin’s head, against the grain of the fur, then rubs a gentle thumb across the short, stiff fur that covers Frumpkin’s nose. Frumpkin goes a little cross-eyed to watch and Fjord laughs, knuckles the base of an ear firmly. Frumpkin’s eyes fall into contented blue slits, nictitating membrane drawn halfway across.

Caleb watches it all, pulled back from Fjord to give him a bit more room to maneuver, and tries to ignore the buzz that lights up under his skin. He can’t help the smile that he can feel curling the corners of his lips. One of his favorite people and his best cat, trying to get along after months of cold indifference from both sides. It’s enough to make his insides go all gooey in that dangerous, sappy way, close to being overcome with emotion. Fjord offers Frumpkin a finger to inspect and Frumpkin rubs his cheek along it, Fjord’s blunted nail pushing Frumpkin’s lip back from his teeth. The purr gets a little louder and Caleb shoves his thoughts away, determined to remain present.

More insistent now, Frumpkin forces his way up Fjord to sit on his belly, front paws braced against Fjord’s chest. Frumpkin butts his head against Fjord’s chin and Fjord smooths both hands down the entirety of Frumpkin’s flanks. Frumpkin’s purr gets even louder before Fjord’s own kicks up, rustier than even Frumpkin’s, fading out on every inhale. Frumpkin looks momentarily startled by this development before he shoves his head aggressively into Fjord’s hand, raggedy ear protruding from between Fjord’s thumb and forefinger as he rubs at the thin fur that trails up to Frumpkin’s ear.

It’s muffled, distant, felt like a light touch when one is smothered with blankets, a mother’s hand smoothing down a sick child’s back during one of those long and cold Zemnian nights, but Caleb can feel Fjord through the bond with Frumpkin. He feels Frumpkin’s delight mix with his own when phantom fingers scratch around a phantom ear that sits, disjointed, at the top of Caleb’s head. During the day, when they’re on the move, it’s easy to ignore, faint sensations drowned out in the waking world.

Here, wrapped up in bed, curled around the object of his affections, it’s closer to consuming him. Helpless, Caleb gives in to it, sinks a little deeper into the bond, dipping a metaphysical toe into the enormity of Frumpkin’s being, and lets the sensations wash over him in a warm ebb and flow, as constant and gentle as the waves of the sea.

Even felt like this, second hand, barely more than a faint pressure along his spine, it’s nearly too much. Too much after so long without, maybe, or too close to something he can’t have. Fjord strokes down Frumpkin’s side with the backs of his newly dulled nails and Caleb shudders. There’s no heat to it, no feeling beyond its feather-light weight, but Caleb knows those hands intimately, can chart every callous and scar and use them to navigate the warm expanse of Fjord’s palms. The imagined heat and gentle chafe is, potentially, more intense than the real thing, if only because it stems from a knowledge gained through careful study, multiple memories layered atop each other, each rendered in perfect, painstaking clarity in his mind’s eye.

Caleb lets out a small, wounded sound, then settles closer in the crook of Fjord’s side.

Fjord pauses his ministrations, purr petering out, a knuckle resting at the vulnerable hollow under Frumpkin’s jaw (the feeling is mirrored against Caleb’s own throat, and Caleb is briefly swept up in every memory of Fjord doing that to  _ him, _ a careful nudge that tips his chin up from where it’s tucked against his chest, a guiding finger that tilts him  _ just so _ for a kiss, a silly, coy gesture in the heat of the moment, the two of them drunk off each other), and he raises his brows. “You alright down there, Widogast?”

Caleb nods, not trusting himself to speak without his voice wavering. Fjord snakes his arm back around Caleb to press his palm to the small of his back, big and so, so warm. His other hand moves to Frumpkin’s shoulder blade where he absentmindedly drags his thumb up and down the bony ridge.

The combination of the two, the hot press of Fjord’s hand and the hazy, near ticklish sweep of fingers down a shoulder that isn’t his own, yet he feels in his soul, has Caleb biting his lip, mortified when he feels tears building in the corners of his eyes.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. The way Fjord’s hand stills in Frumpkin’s fur, the way his eyes widen in worried surprise, the way his fingers flex ever so slightly against Caleb’s skin, it’s all more than he’s had in so long.

Perhaps it’s more than he’s ever had, more than he’s ever dared to dream of.

Caleb ducks his head, wishes his still damp hair would fall into his face and let him hide. Longs for the days when he could disappear behind a layer of muck and stubble, unseen, overlooked. Instead, that stubborn lock of hair that always falls, stubbornly, into his eyes stays tucked, stubbornly, behind his ear, exactly where Fjord put it.

“Hey, hey,” Fjord says, abandoning Frumpkin to cup Caleb’s jaw, urging him to meet his eyes. “Caleb, what’s wrong?” Rather than let himself be moved, Caleb turns his head to press his lips to Fjord’s palm, desperately fighting back the tears that gather at his lash line. He feels too warm, right in the center of his chest, alight and sparking, every touch adding kindling to a flickering flame. “Hey, come on, look at me,” Fjord’s voice is cajoling, and while his affected drawl no longer drips from it like honey, it’s still just as sweet.

Too sweet, too sweet, too sweet.

Caleb does nothing and Fjord sighs.

“Okay, that’s okay,” and then his hand is carding through Caleb’s hair, coming to rest at the back of his skull. Fjord pulls him in, an undemanding exhortation, until Caleb’s forehead is pressed against the swell of his pectoral. It’s habit, to wrap his arms tightly around Fjord, even though Caleb can’t decide if he wants to scurry away to smooth his ruffled fur in isolation or if he wants to stay here, with Fjord and his heady warmth and cuddly, octopus-ish ways that are, for some reason, sending him so close to the edge of something desperate. Caleb locks his hands together behind Fjord’s back in an effort to convince himself to stay. 

It’s not pleasant for Caleb--he can already feel the pins and needles picking up in his fingertips--but it must be horribly uncomfortable for Fjord, to have the sharp lines of Caleb’s wrists digging into his back. Fjord shifts slightly, but doesn’t otherwise complain.

They sit together. Once his ridiculous, unshed tears have dried, Caleb slides completely into Fjord’s lap, dislodging Frumpkin, who slinks off to the foot of the bed with an air of disgust. Caleb lets his full scrawny, spindly weight fall against Fjord and lays chest to belly, Fjord’s bare legs bracketing either side of his body. Caleb rests his temple against Fjord’s chest, eye level with the marks bitten into his skin. He follows them with his eyes and tries to convince himself that this is okay. That he is allowed to want, to have, to be held like something precious without the thought turning to ash in his mouth.

Above him, Fjord hums as he scratches Caleb’s back. It’s a vaguely familiar tune; Caleb knows he could place it if he tries. His hands pass up and down, up and down in sweeping, parallel arcs on either side of Caleb’s spine. Blunt and far too light to scratch any itch Caleb might have, the gesture is still nice and not nearly as overwhelming as before.

“I apologize,” Caleb says at last, once he feels in control of himself and his emotions. Fjord makes a curious sound, fingers splayed against his scapula. “For before. When I…” Caleb trails off, presses the side of his head a little more firmly against Fjord. “I was overwhelmed.”

“Ah.”

“Mmm.”

A beat passes, then, “That’s alright. You know that, right?” Fjord ducks down a little, trying to catch his eye. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I know,” Caleb murmurs, freeing one hand to trace a love bite that caps one of the scars that curves across Fjord’s sternum. “I do,” he says, more strongly, when Fjord rumbles a sound of disbelief. “I--It’s hard, sometimes. Scary.”

“I get it,” Fjord says and resumes scratching Caleb’s back, “gods, Caleb, I think we all do.” Caleb curls in on himself, a little chastised. Fjord inhales sharply and coughs. “Not--Not like that!” He wheezes, “I just meant… Hells, I’m here, for you. That’s all. Okay? Whatever you need, just say the word. Anything. Always.”

Caleb holds his breath as he ruminates on that.  _ Always. _ Such a bold, broad promise, given so freely, first deep under the sea when they were barely friends and now here, tangled up in bed in a strangely charged post-coital haze that only the two of them could manage.

_ Anything. _

Caleb braces his hands on Fjord’s legs, lets his thumbs glide down to brush at the tender skin of the inside of his thighs, trying to recapture some of the light, silly energy that they’ve lost, and pushes himself up. Fjord looks at him stoically, seriously, though Caleb can see the way he chews on the inside of his lip when Caleb presses his thumb to a small, delicate bite that sits high by the crease of his thigh.

He leans in close to steal a kiss, then knocks their foreheads together. Fjord gives him a half smile that Caleb barely sees, too caught up in admiring the way Fjord’s pupils have dilated, nearly round in the low light.

“Anything is a lot, Fjord,” Caleb says, lips barely brushing the slight jut of Fjord’s tusks. Fjord shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“And I’d do a lot for you, Caleb.”

Caleb blinks, tries not to be thrown. “In that case,” he pauses, licks his lips, delights in the way Fjord’s eyes track the motion, “Will you brush my hair?”

Fjord freezes. Then he throws his head back and laughs. Pleased, Caleb finishes pushing himself up so he’s kneeling between Fjord’s legs, knees pressed against the inside of his thighs, and settles his weight back on his ankles. Fjord wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“You-- you’re such a fuckin’ tease,” he’s breathless with his laughter, “you know that, right?” He doesn’t give Caleb a chance to respond. Instead, he cups Caleb’s face with both palms, just firm enough to squish Caleb’s lips into a facsimile of a fish, then kisses him, fish-lips and all. “Find me the brush,” he says when they part, and Caleb beams.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact 1: caleb spends the entirety of this fic nude, which i forgot until the end and was just like O.O "ah."  
fun fact 2: this fic contains the first instances of caleb genuinely smiling in any of my writings :D
> 
> find me on twitter [@chitalpas]()!
> 
> thank u for reading~


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